Page 1 of Beckett (Warrior Security #2)

Audra Cartland

The fist slammed against my car window, jerking me from nightmares into a worse reality. For one terrible moment, still caught between sleep and waking, I knew with bone-deep certainty— he’d found me.

My body moved before my mind caught up. Heart slamming against ribs, fingers already on my keys.

A face pressed against the driver’s side glass, features grotesque in the predawn darkness.

Wild, bloodshot eyes. Yellowed teeth bared in what might have been a grin or a grimace. Greasy hair hanging in strings.

Not him. But terror flooded my system anyway, electric and familiar.

The door handle rattled. Metal against metal, the sound sharp as breaking bones. “Hey! Hey, lady! I know you’re in there!”

His voice, rough with alcohol or drugs or madness, vibrated through the glass. Another slam—harder. The whole car rocked. I tasted copper where I’d bitten my tongue.

“I just need a few dollars. Come on! Open up!”

The engine of my ancient car wouldn’t start. My hands shook so violently, the keys jangled like wind chimes. First turn—nothing. Second—nothing.

The man’s face pressed closer, breath fogging my window, and oh God, what if the engine didn’t?—

It caught. I threw the car into reverse without looking, punching the gas. The man didn’t step back. If anything, he pressed closer, palms flat against my window, leaving greasy smears.

“Where you going? Hey! I’m talking to you!”

I hit the gas harder. The car lurched backward, tires screaming against asphalt.

In my side mirror, I caught him stumbling, arms wheeling, mouth open in a shout I couldn’t hear over my hammering pulse.

He chased me for three steps before giving up, standing in the empty parking lot like a scarecrow, still yelling at the dark.

I was all the way out of whatever town this was and my speedometer hitting sixty on the highway before I forced my foot to ease off. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way Todd had taught me when panic attacks first started happening after our mother had died years ago.

I had to get myself under control. Getting pulled over meant questions. Questions meant danger.

Even after my heart settled from constantly telling myself it wasn’t him , I still drove. I didn’t know where. I never knew where.

Eventually, the gas gauge mocked me—needle kissing E, threatening to drop below. I had twenty-three dollars crumpled in my pocket. That would get me what? Five gallons? Maybe seventy miles if the mountains were kind.

It didn’t seem like anything was ever kind anymore.

I stopped anyway, using twenty of my twenty-three dollars for gas. I ignored the mouthwatering smell of hot dogs and coffee inside as I paid. I had no money for that, especially not at gas station prices.

I could almost admire the distant Montana mountains in the morning sky as I got back into my car. I’d always loved the mountains, the vast openness so unlike Seattle, where I’d made my home for the past decade. At least until about six months ago.

I gripped the steering wheel harder as I drove east. My eyes felt like someone had thrown sand in them, but adrenaline would carry me a while longer. It always did.

Until it didn’t.

But adrenaline wasn’t going to get me more money or food or gas. I couldn’t just keep driving. I had to come up with a plan. Soon, the gas gauge needle was back below Empty. What was I going to do?

Garnet Bend - 25 miles

The sign on the road appeared like some sort of…sign.

Garnet Bend.

My throat closed. Todd’s voice echoed in my memory, warm and alive: There’s this little town in Montana, Aud.

A guy in my unit grew up there—Beckett Sinclair.

Says the mountains hold you like a mother holds a baby.

Safe. Protected. We’ll go someday. Visit Beck, camp, enjoy the mountains. I think you’d like him.

I smiled. My brother had always been trying to set me up. He’d mentioned something about a ranch here too. Resting Heroes?

No, Resting Warrior Ranch. Todd had always wanted to visit. Said they did good work there, although I didn’t know what type. Always figured I’d find out when we went to visit someday.

My smile faded. Eighteen months since a drunk driver had stolen all our somedays . Eighteen months since I’d had anyone to call when the world turned dark and dangerous. And now…

An eye for an eye.

I shoved that memory down deep where it couldn’t terrify me and pressed the accelerator. The engine coughed—a polite little sound, almost apologetic. A few miles down the road, it coughed again, louder this time. Less apologetic, more death rattle.

“Damn it. No.” The word came out cracked. “Please. Not now. Just a few more miles.”

But the car didn’t listen. It shuddered like a dying animal moments later. I guided it to the shoulder as the engine gave one final wheeze and went silent. Momentum carried me a few precious yards before physics won.

I turned the key. Click. Again. Click-click-click. The sound of not-moving-until-you-give-me-more-gas.

My forehead met the steering wheel, plastic cold against feverish skin. When had I last slept more than two hours straight? When had I last woken without checking locks, windows, shadows? My stomach cramped—hunger or fear, maybe both.

A semi roared past, wind-wake rocking my dead car like a cradle. I jerked upright, scanning. Empty road. Mountains pressing close. Probably about fifteen miles left to Garnet Bend. Fifteen miles in shoes held together with duct tape and prayer. But I had to go.

Shit. This was going to be a long walk. I grabbed my backpack out of the trunk—everything I owned weighing less than most people’s groceries.

Half a water bottle sloshing lonely. Peanut butter jar scraped nearly clean.

Three slices of bread going stale. Two changes of clothes that had forgotten the smell of real detergent.

A phone gasping at nineteen percent battery.

My whole life. Twenty-eight years reduced to what I could carry while running.

The morning air bit through my jacket, mountain-cold and merciless. But movement meant warmth. Movement meant survival. I’d learned that the hard way over the past few months.

After a mile, I saw a hand-painted sign, weathered but readable. Pawsitive Connections - Service & Support Animals 1/2 mile . An arrow pointed down a dirt road.

A half mile seemed a lot better than fifteen. Maybe I could borrow some gas at this animal place. I turned and started walking down the dirt road. At the very least, I felt less exposed than on the highway.

Ten minutes later, the trees opened like curtains, and I stopped breathing.

Rolling pastures painted gold by the Montana sun. Barns and buildings scattered like toys. Horses grazing, breath steaming in small clouds of peace. Dogs barking—not angry, just alive. The main building wore white paint and green trim like Sunday clothes, wrapped in a porch that promised welcome.

It was beautiful. But I knew that didn’t necessarily mean safe. Pretty places could hide the ugliest truths.

But maybe they would have work. I needed a job. Needed money. Needed a way to keep running. It was my only option.

The porch steps announced my arrival with creaks and groans. Through the cracked door came country music and a coffee smell. My stomach twisted with want so sharp it hurt.

“Hello?” My voice came out as rust and whispers.

“Come on in! Be right there!” A female voice. Bright. Cheerful. The voice of someone who’d probably never been hunted.

Inside, the house looked like a vet’s office raised by a living room—comfortable chairs with torn arms, a desk drowning in paperwork, walls papered with photos of dogs and humans grinning at cameras. Success stories. Happy endings. Foreign concepts.

A woman emerged from the back, wiping dirty hands on dirtier jeans. Early thirties. Red hair twisted up messy-deliberate. The kind of open face that invited confessions.

Which meant I needed armor.

“Hi there! I’m Lark Monroe. What can I—” Her smile crumpled as she catalogued my damage. Hollow cheeks. Purple shadows. Backpack. Clothes that screamed slept in a car. “Oh honey, are you okay?”

The gentleness sliced deeper than cruelty would have. I pulled my shoulders back, lifted my chin. “I’m fine. Car broke down. Saw the Pawsitive Connections sign from the main road.”

“That’s quite a walk! Sit, please. Let me get you something. We’ll talk.”

She guided me to a chair before I could protest, then vanished. I perched on the edge, mapping exits. Through the window, dogs played in a large enclosure. Normal. Safe. Everything I’d forgotten how to be.

Lark returned with water and blessed coffee. “Now, about your car. Garnet Bend has a great mechanic in town, Jensen Chambers. He’s honest, fast?—”

“No.” My word came out too sharp. Too fast. I tried to soften it. “Thank you, but I just need… I think it’s really more that I was out of gas. If you have some, maybe I could get about three dollars’ worth?” I pulled my last crumpled bills out of my pocket.

She studied me without saying anything.

I glanced around. Even if she gave me the gas, what was I going to do? I’d make it into Garnet Bend, but there was no guarantee there were any jobs there. Not the type I needed. I swallowed pride like broken glass. “Or…are you hiring for some part-time work?”

I didn’t even know exactly what they did here. Just knew the place had a cute name. Pawsitive Connections.

Lark tilted her head, obviously adding up the evidence in front of her. Woman alone. Broken car she won’t let anyone touch. Desperate enough to beg for work from strangers. The math was elementary.

“Actually, I could use help. One of my assistants is having a tough pregnancy so can’t work as much.

You should be forewarned that this job isn’t fancy—feeding the animals, cleaning stalls, basic work.

I can only pay cash right now, maybe forty for the day.

The real position starts when I’m back from my conference next week. ”